Kinch Riley / Indian Territory

by Matt Braun

  The battle ended with abrupt suddenness. Breathing hard, Ryan stepped back from a man he’d just clubbed on the head. The special agent lurched, wobbling unsteadily, pinwheels of light flashing before his eyes. Blood oozed down over his cheekbone and an ugly cut split his lower lip. His hat was gone and one side of his jacket was ripped across the shoulder. He dimly remembered the blows, the punishment he’d absorbed. But he had lost count of the men who had fallen before his ax handle.

  Ryan became slowly aware of his surroundings. He was some thirty yards beyond the railroad tracks, with no recollection of how he’d gotten there. The moonlit earth was littered with fallen men, many of them severely injured and moaning pitifully. Others lay sprawled where they’d been struck down, unconscious and bleeding, perhaps dead. Those still standing were the men of the Irish Brigade. Their breathing was ragged, frosty spurts in the chill night air, and most of them had already cast aside their ax handles. They looked curiously unlike victors.

  Ryan turned, then suddenly stopped. He saw Scullin a few yards away, bent down on one knee. The Irishman was matted with blood, his scalp laid open along the hairline. He seemed dazed, blinking his eyes as he surveyed the carnage. After a moment, as though he sensed Ryan’s stare, he looked around. Their eyes met, and Scullin seemed to gather himself. His mouth twitched in a game smile.

  “We whipped ‘em, Johnny. Whipped ’em good!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The light of day was sobering. All the exhilaration of the fight seemed to have evaporated overnight. There was little talk in the Katy camp, and a somber mood prevailed. No one crowed victory or slandered the vanquished.

  As the sun rose higher, men paused to look at the battleground. Sometime during the night a string of torchlit wagons from the A&P camp had collected their injured. One of the bunk cars had been converted into a hospital and quickly filled with the Irish Brigade’s casualties. Before the moon waned, all those struck down had been removed.

  To Ryan’s amazement, no one had been killed. He’d worked late into the night helping tend some of the fallen men. Broken arms and legs were the most common injury. Several men, their heads split open and their features horribly mangled, were in serious condition. None would die, but weeks, perhaps months would pass before they were once again whole. The price of victory had been extreme.

  Ryan considered himself lucky. Compared to some in the Irish Brigade, he’d come through almost unscathed. Fleeting images of the night before were still with him, and he found himself in a dark, introspective mood. Violence was part and parcel of his work; over the years he’d killed more men than he cared to admit, but some aspect of last night’s struggle left him reflective, and vaguely troubled. While the Civil War raged, he had taken part in many of the bloodiest battles. He’d seen death in every known form, from grapeshot to entrails spilled by a cavalryman’s sword. Later, as a marshal he had killed swiftly and without regret. But now, for some reason he was unable to identify, he felt demeaned by what he’d done last night. He didn’t understand it, and more to the point, he didn’t understand himself. He wondered if a man might somehow become tired of violence and bloodshed the way he might become surfeited with rich food. The question nagged at him and that bothered him all the more.

  Stevens walked into camp late that morning. Advised of the battle’s outcome, he had hiked the three miles from Vinita. His attitude was triumphant, and he lavished high praise on Scullin as well as Ryan. But then, as he marched around congratulating the Irish Brigade on their victory, a strange thing happened. The men avoided his eyes, nodding wordlessly, their manner distant. Unspoken, though felt by everyone, was the thought that Stevens, like his rival, Andrew Peirce, had sat out the fight in safety. He was therefore not one of them, and the men resented his Johnny-come-lately camaraderie. Stevens was obviously wounded by the men’s coldness and withdrew in confusion and embarrassment. He looked like a general who had arrived late and missed the parade.

  Around one o’clock the train departed for Gibson Station. There was a brief stop in Vinita, where Stevens’ private car was hooked on to the rear. Scullin and Ryan both declined an invitation to join the railroader for the balance of the trip. Instead, they rode in the hospital car, assisting those who had volunteered to look after the injured. Scullin, whose head was wrapped in a bloody bandage, seemed particularly sensitive to the needs of the hurt men. He acted very much like someone with a guilty conscience.

  Ryan became absorbed in watching Scullin. He wondered if the Irishman was having second thoughts similar to his own. The idea intrigued Ryan for Tom Scullin was no stranger to bloodshed. Nor was he known for putting the welfare of his men before the dictates of the railroad. He tended to see the world in bold black and white even more than Ryan, and the demands of the job took precedence over all else. Still, he looked troubled today and ministered to the wounded men as though he’d smote them down himself.

  Some miles down the road, Ryan moved to the open door for a breath of air. He was lost in his own thoughts when he became aware that Scullin had joined him. The Irishman filled a pipe from his tobacco pouch and cupped his hands into the wind to shield a match. He puffed smoke, saying nothing, and seemed content to share the silence. After a while he gave Ryan a sidelong glance. Then he nodded back into the hospital car.

  “I’ve been thinkin’,” he said in a muted voice. “All these boys crippled and hurt—it’s a hell of a price.”

  “During the war,” Ryan remarked, “I heard it called the aftereffects of battle. Once the fighting’s over, you get to wondering whether it was worth it—who really won.”

  “God help me,” Scullin said half to himself. “Last night I did my damnedest to kill somebody. And a blessed wonder I didn’t too! I had a taste for blood.”

  “Nothing unusual in that. It happens to lots of men in the heat of a fight.”

  “Do you think so, John?”

  “I know it for a fact. I’ve seen it too many times to doubt it.”

  “Well, I don’t mind tellin’ you, it’s new to me. I’ve busted heads, fought rough and tumble all my life. But I’ve never killed a man—never wanted to—till last night.”

  “It’s the way of things,” Ryan said quietly. “One day you do it and the next day you wish you hadn’t. I reckon you just got lucky.”

  Scullin puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. He’d heard a rueful note in Ryan’s voice, and he was suddenly tempted to ask a question that he had always avoided. He hesitated even now, fearful the younger man would take offense. But the compulsion to ask, regardless of the consequences, was too great. After last night he had to know.

  “We’ve known each other how long, John? Eight months or thereabouts?”

  “Close enough,” Ryan said. “What makes you ask?”

  “Because I’m about to trade on friendship. I want to ask you a personal question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Well …” Scullin paused, then rushed on. “So I’ll quit wonderin’, I’d be obliged if you’ll tell me. What’s it like to kill a man?”

  Ryan wasn’t offended. Had it been anyone else, he would have responded curtly. But he’d shared a bunk car and a great many confidences with Tom Scullin. And he’d never forgotten the Irishman’s genuine concern following the courtroom shootout. He decided to answer the question.

  “The first time,” he said evenly, “you get a little queasy at your stomach. It’s like you’ve suddenly learned what death means—it’s not pretty.”

  “And the next time?” Scullin asked softly.

  “Unless you’re a mad-dog killer, it never gets easier. You’re able to do it without a whole lot of thought while it’s happening. But afterward you always wish there’d been another way.”

  Scullin searched his eyes. “And the man you’ve killed, what do you feel for him?”

  “Anger,” Ryan said simply. “You wonder why the damn fool forced your hand. You want to jerk him up and box his ears good for making you do it.”

&n
bsp; “Are you bothered by it later?”

  “Your conscience isn’t bothered. You’re sorry and you wish it’d turned out different. But what you think about mostly is whether you did it quickly and cleanly. Your biggest regret is if you didn’t and he suffered.”

  “So it’s not all that cold-blooded, is it?”

  “No,” Ryan told him. “It’s damn personal. Just as personal as you’ll ever get with another man.”

  Scullin considered a moment. “When it’s happenin’, are you ever afraid, Johnny? Do you think about the other man killin’ you?”

  Ryan nodded, as though it was a question he’d already asked himself. “You don’t think about anything. You trust your instincts and you get the job done the best way possible. When you start thinking, you’re almost certain to get yourself killed.”

  Scullin realized his pipe had gone cold. He stared out the door, watching the countryside rush past. He thought he had never heard anything sadder than what he’d just been told. And he was sorrier for John Ryan than any man he’d ever known. After a time, he looked around.

  “Thank you, John,” he said genuinely. “You’ve done me a service. I’ll go out of my way to avoid that first time.”

  “You could do worse, Tom. A hell of a lot worse.”

  Neither of them spoke again. They stood there, warmed by the sun, while the train rattled southward. An hour or so later they crossed into the Creek Nation.

  Gibson Station celebrated their return. Stevens magnanimously gave the men of the Irish Brigade a bonus and awarded them two days off. Those of them who were able to walk beat a path first to the saloons and then to Poonville. The girls welcomed them like a conquering army.

  Early the next morning Ryan rode out of camp. After a restless night, he’d decided to resolve the mystery of Elias Boudinot. There were unanswered questions in his mind, and he knew he’d heard only one side of the story. He told no one where he was going, for he considered it a personal matter. Outside town he turned his horse northeast, toward Tahlequah.

  Autumn was slowly settling over the land. Frosty nights and cool days were gradually chilling the wooded terrain. Trees already gave promise of leaves turned umber and gold and fiery red. Yet Ryan saw nothing of the burgeoning splendor, for his mind was preoccupied with other matters. As he rode he tried to organize his thoughts, phrase the questions that needed to be asked. He decided on the direct approach, rather than cat and mouse. He’d had his fill of diplomacy.

  An hour before noontime he sighted William Ross’ home. hen he stepped out of the saddle, the stable boy took his orse with a great show of reluctance. At the door one of he house servants admitted him as though he was unwelome. Some twenty minutes passed while he cooled his heels n the vestibule. At last, without apology, he was shown into he study. By then Ryan himself was not inclined to be tactul.

  Ross received him with austere civility. He looked openly ispleased. There was no offer of a chair, even though the lder man was seated behind his desk. Nor was there any etense of welcome, or a handshake.

  “I can only assume,” he said formally, “that you’ve choen to ignore my wishes. I thought I made myself clear the ast time you were here.”

  Ryan halted in front of the desk, hat in hand. “You did, ut there’s no way around it. I need a question answered, d you’re the man to ask.”

  “Indeed?” Ross replied. “Why should I answer anything ut to me by Colonel Stevens’ emissary?”

  “I’m not here for Stevens or the railroad. I’m here to atisfy myself about something.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Elias Boudinot.”

  Ryan let the name drop, then waited. There was no flicker f reaction on Ross’ features. He merely sat there unsmiling, eturning Ryan’s stare. At length he made a noncommittal esture.

  “Very well—ask your question.”

  “I braced Boudinot,” Ryan said. “According to him, appin rigged the A&P land deal. The new town site was a ut-up job, start to finish.”

  “Go on,” Ross said faintly.

  “Tappin threatened Boudinot to make him cooperate. Scared him so bad that he agreed to betray Stevens and throw n with the A&P.”

  “You still haven’t asked a question.”

  “Tappin’s your man.” Ryan paused, looking him straight in the eye. “I want to know if he was following your orders.”

  “Is that what Boudinot told you?”

  “Yeah, more or less. He said Tappin doesn’t hop unless you say ‘frog.’”

  Ross appeared bitterly amused. “Whether I gave the order or not seems somewhat academic. What does it matter to you?”

  “Let’s just say it matters. Are you going to answer me or not?”

  Ross grew silent, staring at a shaft of sunlight filtering through the window. His expression was abstracted, a long pause of inner deliberation. Finally he glanced up, motioned to Ryan.

  “Please sit down, John.”

  Ryan took a chair. He was keenly aware of the abrupt change in Ross’ manner. The tension between them seemed to melt away.

  “When I was younger,” Ross said in an avuncular voice, “I thought a strong leader could impose his will on an entire people. In time I learned that it’s sometimes necessary to turn a blind eye and exercise pragmatism.”

  “So you knew,” Ryan ventured, “but you didn’t actually issue the order. You just let Tappin go ahead with it.”

  Ross inclined his head. “I had little choice in the matter. Had I attempted to stop him, I would have been accused of taking sides with Stevens. Any hint of that would destroy my influence with the tribal council.”

  “Weren’t you worried about what Stevens would do? You must’ve known he wouldn’t let the A&P get away with it.”

  “I’m not responsible for what Stevens does or doesn’t do.”

  “Yeah, but you’re responsible for what Tappin does.”

  “In a sense, I condoned it with my silence. So, yes, you’re right.”

  “And that got a lot of good men hurt the other night. Some of them could’ve been killed.”

  Ross looked at him squarely. “A number of my people have been killed.”

  “There’s a difference,” Ryan said with studied calm. ‘They went looking for a fight and found it. You forced Stevens’ hand—and got a bunch of men crippled—by doing nothing. You could’ve pulled in the reins on Tappin.”

  “I regret very much that those men were injured. But why should I create dissension within the council merely to stop Tappin? After all, any squabble between Stevens and the A&P can only benefit my people.”

  “Like it or not,” Ryan pointed out, “the railroad’s here to stay. All you’ve done is make yourself—and the Chero kees—some more enemies in Washington. You ought to start mending your fences instead.”

  Ross raised a questioning eyebrow. “Why are you so concerned with the Cherokees’ welfare?”

  Ryan didn’t answer the question directly. “Stevens won’t quit till he whips the A&P. He aims to make the Katy the dominant line in the Nations, and he will. You’d better learn to live with it.”

  “Would you suggest I run up the white flag today or wait awhile?”

  “What I’d suggest,” Ryan urged, “is that you face the facts, accept reality. Otherwise you’ll just make it tougher on your people.”

  Ross regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then shook his head. “You still haven’t explained your sudden concern for the Cherokees.”

  “Nothing sudden about it. I’m just tired of killing people, that’s all. I want it to stop.”

  Ryan stood, ending the conversation. When he walked from the room, Ross looked rather confounded. He thought the younger man’s outburst was highly revealing. It seemed to him on the order of a confession or a plea for absolution. Or perhaps both.

  The realization triggered something deeper and more personal. He sensed he’d misjudged John Ryan.

  Elizabeth was waiting in the hallway. After being informed of R
yan’s arrival, she had hurried downstairs. The door to the study was ajar, and while she hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, she couldn’t help herself. Some quick-felt hope had compelled her to listen.

  Her sudden appearance startled Ryan. He seemed embarrassed, uncertain as to how much she’d overheard. Falling in beside him, she quickly dispelled any doubt. She smiled as they walked toward the vestibule.

  “I heard everything,” she said happily. “And I don’t apologize for eavesdropping. I’m so very proud of you, John.”

  “For what?”

  “For your …” She hesitated, choosing her words. “For your change of heart. You’ll never regret breaking with the railroad.”

  “Hold on!” Ryan said, halting in midstride. “You jumped to the wrong conclusion. I’m still on the Katy payroll.”

  “But I thought—”

  “All I said was, I’m tired of the killing. I want it stopped, but quitting my job wouldn’t accomplish anything. I can do more to end it by staying right where I am.”

  “Can you?” Her voice dropped. “Or will it just go on until someone kills you?”

  Ryan looked down, studied the floor. “What do you want of me, Elizabeth?”

  “Too much, it seems,” she said coolly. “So I’ll just repay you for the advice you gave Father.”

  “You don’t have to repay anything.”

  She smiled wanly. “Perhaps it will help end the killing. In any case, you should beware of David Tappin. He doesn’t like talk of compromise.”

  “I knew that a long time ago.”

  “And he will never accept reality—or the railroad.”

  “If you’re trying to tell me he’s vindictive, I already got the message. He showed that with the A&P.”

  “There’s more,” she went on quickly. “I believe he’s trying to force my father’s resignation. He has visions of himself as chief of the Cherokee Nation.”

  Ryan looked surprised. “How does your father feel about that?”

  “He thinks I’m foolish,” she admitted. “He won’t listen, or discuss it.”